THAT GIRL OF CONNER'S
"'You will tell the people that this poor child wanted to kill herself,
and the people will call it suicide. But, by God--it's murder! Murder--I
tell you!'"
Slipping into her clothing the nurse went down to the front door where
Uncle George was waiting. A horse and buggy stood at the front gate.
"Evenin' mam, is yo' de nurse?" said the old negro, lifting his cap.
"Yes, I am the nurse, Miss Farwell. Dr. Abbott sent you for me?"
"'Deed he did, mam, 'deed he did--said I was to fetch yo' wid big Jim
out dar. Tol' me to say hit was er'mergency case. I dunno what dat is,
but dey sho needs yo' powerful bad over in Old Town--'deed dey does."
The latter part of this speech was delivered to the empty doorway. The
nurse was already back in her room.
The old negro rubbed his chin with a trembling hand, as he turned with a
puzzled look on his black face from the open door to the horse and buggy
and back to the door again.
"Dat young 'oman run lak a scared rabbit," he muttered. "What de ole
scratch I do now?"
Before he could decide upon any course of action, Miss Farwell, fully
dressed was by his side again, and half way to the gate before he could
get under way.
"Come," she said, "you should have been in the buggy ready to start."
"Yas'm, yas'm, comin' comin'," he answered, breaking into a trot for the
rig, and climbing in by her side. "Come Jim, git! Yo' black villen, don'
yo' know, dis here's er'mergency case? Yo' sho got to lay yo' laigs to
de groun' dis night er yo' goin' to git left sartin! 'Mergency case!" he
chuckled. "Dat mak him go, Miss. Funny I nebber knowed dat 'fore."
Sure enough, the black horse was covering the ground at a pace that
fairly took Miss Farwell's breath. The quick steady beat of the iron-shod
feet and the rattle of the buggy wheels echoed loudly in the gray
stillness. Above the tops of the giant maples that lined the road, the
nurse saw the stars paling in the first faint glow of the coming day,
while here and there in the homes of some early-rising workers the
lights flashed out, and the people--with the name of Dr. Harry on their
lips--paused to listen to the hurried passing of big Jim.
"Can you tell me something of the case?" asked the nurse.
"Case? Oh you mean de po'r gal what tried to kill herse'f. Yes, Miss, I
sho can. Yo' see hit's dis away. Hit's dat po'r Conner gal, her whose
Daddy done killed Jack Mulhall, de town marshal yo' know. De Conners
used to be nice folks, all 'ceptin' Jim. He drink a little sometimes,
an' den he was plumb bad. Seems lak he got worse dat way. An' since dey
took him off an' Mrs. Conner died de gal, she don't git 'long somehow.
Since she left de hotel she's been livin' over in Old Town along some
colored folks, upstairs in de old town-hall building. I knows 'bout hit
'y see, coz Liz an' me we all got friends, Jake Smith an' his folks,
livin' in de same buildin', yo see. Wal, lately de gal don't 'pear to be
doin' even as well as usual, an' de folks dey got plumb scared she ac'
so queer like. Sometime in de night, Jake an' Mandy dey waked up hearin'
a moanin' an' a cryin' in de po'r gal's room. Dey call at de door but
dey ain't no answer an' so dey stan 'round for 'while 'thout knowin'
what to do, till de cryin' an' screechin' gits worse, an' things 'pears
to be smashin' round lak. Den Mandy say to de folks what's been waked up
an' is standin' 'round de door she ain't goin' to stan dare doin'
nothin' no mo', an' she fo'ce open de door an' goes in.
"Yes sah, Miss Nurse, Mandy say dat gal jest throwin' herself 'round de
room an' screechin', an' Mandy grab her jest as she 'bout to jump out de
winder. She won't say nothin' but how she's burnin' up an' Mandy she
send Jake to me quick. I sho don' want to wake Dr. Harry, Miss coz he's
done tuckered out, but I'se scared not to, coz once 'fore I didn't wake
him when somebody want him an' I ain't nebber done hit no more. Go on
dar, Jim. Yes sah, Mars Harry Abbott he's a debbil, Miss, when he's mad,
'deed he is, jest lak de old Mars--he's daddy. So I calls him easy-like
but Lawd--he's up an' dress 'fore I can hook up big Jim here, an' we
come fer Old Town on de run. Quick as he get in de room he calls out de
winder fo' me to drive quick's I can to de Judge's an' fotch yo. An'
dat's all I know--'ceptin' Dr. Harry say hit's a'mergency case. We most
dare now. Go on Jim--go on sah!"
While the old negro was speaking the big horse was whirling them through
the quiet streets of the village. As Uncle George finished they reached
the top of Academy Hill, where Miss Farwell saw the old school
building--ghostly and still in the mists that hung about it like a
shroud, the tumble-down fence with the gap leading into the weed-grown
yard, the grassy knoll and the oak--all wet and sodden now, and--below,
the valley--with its homes and fields hidden in the thick fog, suggestive
of hidden and mysterious depths.
"Is yo' cold, Miss? We's mos dar, now." The nurse had shivered as with a
sudden chill.
Turning sharply to the north a minute later they entered the square of
Old Town where a herd of lean cows were just getting up from their beds
to pick a scanty breakfast from the grass that grew where once the farmer
folk had tied their teams, and in front of the ruined structure that had
once been the principal store of the village, a mother sow grunted to her
squealing brood.
Long without touch of painter's brush, the few wretched buildings that
remained were the color of the mist. To the nurse--like the fog that hid
the valley--they suggested cold mysterious depths of life, untouched by
any ray of promised sun. And out of that dull gray abyss a woman's voice
broke sharply, on the stillness, in a scream of pain.
"Dat's her, dat's de po'r gal, now, nurse. Up dare where yo' sees dat
light."
Uncle George brought the big black to a stand in front of the ancient
town-hall and court-house, a two-story, frame building with the stairway
on the outside. A group of negroes huddled--with awed faces--at the foot
of the stairs drew back as the nurse sprang from the buggy and ran
lightly up the shaky old steps. The narrow, dirty hallway was crowded
with more negroes. The odor of the place was sickening.
Miss Farwell pushed her way through and entered the room where Dr. Harry,
assisted by a big black woman, was holding his struggling patient on the
bed. The walls and ceiling of the room--stained by the accumulated smoke
of years, the rough bare floor, the window--without shade or curtain, the
only furniture--a rude table and a chair or two, a little stove set on
broken bricks, a handful of battered dishes and cooking utensils, a
trunk, and the bed with its ragged quilts and comforts, all cried aloud
the old, old familiar cry of bitter poverty.
Dr. Harry glanced up as the nurse entered.
"Carbolic acid," he said quietly, "but she didn't get quite enough. I
managed to give her the antidote and a hypodermic. We better repeat the
hypodermic I think."
Without a word the nurse took her place at the bedside. When the patient,
under the influence of the drug, had grown more quiet, Dr. Harry
dismissed the negro woman with a few kind words, and the promise that he
would send for her if she could help them in any way. Then when he had
sent the others away from the room and the hallway he turned to the
nurse.
"Miss Farwell, I am sorry that I was forced to send for you, but you can
see that there was nothing else to do. I knew you would come without loss
of time, and I dared not leave her without a white woman in the room." He
paused and went to the bedside. "Poor, poor little girl. She tried so
hard to die, nurse; she will try again the moment she regains
consciousness. These good colored people would do anything for her, but
she must see one of her own race when she opens her eyes." He paused
seemingly at a loss for words.
Miss Farwell spoke for the first time, "She is a good girl, Doctor? Not
that it matters you know, but--"
Dr. Harry spoke positively, "Yes, she is a good girl; it is not that,
nurse."
"Then how--" Miss Farwell glanced around the room. "Then why is she
here?"
No one ever heard Dr. Harry Abbott speak a bitter word, but there was a
strange note in his voice as he answered slowly, "She is here because
there seems to be no other place for her to go. She did this because
there seemed to be nothing else for her to do."
Then briefly he related the sad history of this good girl with a bad
reputation. "Dr. Oldham and I tried to help her," he said, "but some ugly
stories got started and somehow Grace heard them. After that she avoided
us."
For a little while there was silence in the room. When Dr. Harry again
turned from his patient to the nurse, Miss Farwell was busily writing
upon his tablet of prescription blanks with a stub of a pencil which she
had taken from her pocket. The doctor watched her curiously for a moment,
then arose, and taking his hat, said briskly: "I will not keep you longer
than an hour Miss Farwell. I think I know of a woman whom I can get for
today at least, and perhaps by tonight we can find someone else, or
arrange it somehow. I'll be back in plenty of time, so don't worry. Your
train does not go until ten-thirty, you know. If the woman can't come at
once, I'll ask Dr. Oldham to relieve you."
The nurse looked at him with smiling eyes, "I am very sorry, Dr. Abbott,
if I am not giving satisfaction," she said.
The physician returned her look with amazement, "Not giving satisfaction!
What in the world do you mean?"
"Why you seem to be dismissing me," she answered demurely. "I understood
that you sent for me to take this case."
At the light that broke over his face she dropped her eyes and wrote
another line on the paper before her.
"Do you mean--" he began, then he stopped.
"I mean," she answered, "that unless you send me away I shall stay on
duty."
"But Dr. Miles--that case in Chicago. I understood from you that it was
very important."
She smiled at him again. "There is nothing so important as the thing
that needs doing now," she answered. "And," she finished slowly, turning
her eyes toward the unconscious girl on the bed--"I do seem to be needed
here."
"And you understand there will be no--no fees in this case?" he asked.
The color mounted to her face. "Is our work always a question of fees,
Doctor? I am surprised, cannot I collect my bill when you receive yours?"
He held out his hand impulsively.
"Forgive me, Miss Farwell, but it is too good to be true. I can't say
any more now. You are needed here--you cannot know how badly. I--we all
need you." She gently released her hand, and he continued in a more
matter-of-fact tone, "I will go now to make a call or two so that I can
be with you later. Your patient will be all right for at least three
hours. I'll send Uncle George with your breakfast."
"Never mind the breakfast," she said. "If you will have your man bring
these things, I will get along nicely." She handed him a prescription
blank. "Here is a list that Mrs. Strong will give him from my room. And
here--" she gave him another blank, "is a list he may get at the grocery.
And here--" she handed him the third blank, "is a list he may get at some
dry goods store. I have not my purse with me so he will need to bring the
bills. The merchants will know him of course--" Dr. Harry looked from the
slips in his hand to the young woman.
"You must not do that, Miss Farwell. Really--"
She interrupted, "Doctor, this is my case, you know."
"It was mine first," he answered grimly.
"But Doctor--"
"Shall I send you my bill, too?" he asked.
A few moments later she heard the quick step of big Jim and the rattle
of the wheels.
Two hours had passed when in response to a low knock, the nurse opened
the door to find Dr. Oldham standing in the narrow hall. The old
physician was breathing heavily from his effort in climbing the rickety
stairs. His arms were full of roses.
Miss Farwell exclaimed with delight, "Oh Doctor, just what I was wishing
for!"
"Uh huh," he grunted. "I thought so. They'll do her good. Harry told me
what you were up to. Thought I better come along in case you should need
any help."
He drew a chair to the bedside, while the nurse with her sleeves rolled
up returned to the work which his knock at the door had interrupted.
Clean, white sheets, pillows and coverings had replaced the tattered
quilt on the bed. The floor was swept. The litter about the stove was
gone, and in its place was a big armful of wood neatly piled, the
personal offering of Uncle George, who had returned quickly with the
things for which the nurse had sent. The dirt and dust had vanished from
the windows. The glaring light was softened by some sort of curtain
material, that the young woman had managed to fix in place. The bare old
cupboard shelves covered with fresh paper were filled with provisions,
and the nurse, washing the last of the dishes and utensils, was placing
them carefully in order. She finished as Dr. Oldham turned from the
patient, and--throwing over the rough table a cloth of bright
colors--began deftly arranging in such dishes as the place afforded, the
flowers he had brought. Already the perfume of the roses was driving
from the chamber that peculiar, sickening odor of poverty.
The old physician, trained by long years of service to habits of close
observation, noted every detail in the changed room. Silently he watched
the strong, beautifully formed young woman in the nurse's uniform,
bending over his flowers, handling them with the touch of love while on
her face, and in the clear gray eyes, shone the light that a few truly
great painters have succeeded in giving to their pictures of the Mother
Mary.
The keen old eyes under their white brows filled and the Doctor turned
hastily back to the figure on the bed. A worn figure it was--thin and
looking old--with lines of care and anxiety, of constant pain and
ceaseless fear, of dread and hopelessness. Only a faint suggestion of
youth was there, only a hint of the beauty of young womanhood that might
have been; nay that would have been--that should have been.
Miss Farwell started as the old man with a sudden exclamation--stood
erect. He faced the young woman with blazing eyes and quivering face--his
voice shaken with passion, as he said: "Nurse, you and Harry tell me this
is suicide." He made a gesture toward the still form on the bed. "You
will tell the people that this poor child wanted to kill herself, and the
people will call it suicide. But, by God--it's murder! Murder--I tell
you! She did not want to kill herself. She wanted to live, to be strong
and beautiful like you. But this community with its churches and Sunday
schools and prayer meetings wouldn't let her. They denied her the poor
privilege of working for the food she needed. They refused even a word of
real sympathy. They hounded her into this stinking hole to live with the
negroes. She may die, nurse, and if she does--as truly as there is a
Creator, who loves his creatures--her death will be upon the unspeakably
cruel, pious, self-worshiping, churchified, spiritually-rotten people in
this town! It's _murder_! I tell you, by God--it's _murder_!" The old man
dropped into his chair exhausted by his passionate outburst.
For a few moments there was no sound in the room save the heavy breathing
of the physician. The nurse stood gazing at him--a look of mingled
sadness and horror on her face.
Then the figure on the bed stirred. The sick girl's eyes opened to stare
wildly--wonderingly, about the room. With a low word to the Doctor, Miss
Farwell went quickly to her patient.